When The Children Cry
by Jay Rease
Summary: They all have things worth crying for.  They are lonely in their worlds, unknowingly begging for a savior.  Rachel, Quinn and Santana are rescued from their reasons by an unsuspecting hero.  Dark!Fic.  Please read warnings.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning****: **This fic deals with many dark topics. There will be non-con, incest, physical and emotional abuse, neglect, rape, and self harm—in shocking detail. It will probably be prevalent in every chapter of this story. I WILL ONLY POST THIS WARNING ONCE. If any of these things trigger you, I suggest you skip this fic. I am not in any way promoting or endorsing the aforementioned abuses, nor am I making light of any of these situations. This is an very angsty fic. It may not end on a good note, it may not end in a way that many of you will agree with. It may not end at all. All I ask is that if you go on to read this fic, you keep in mind that it is not meant to offend anyone in particular. Please refrain from flaming or leaving non-constructive criticisms. If you do have anything to point out, or anything you think I should correct, feel free to pm me on .

**Special Thanks:**If you don't know who Brittanafan is, I suggest you hurry over to her page, tumblr, or live journal and find out. Through ongoing plot planning, endless nights on aim, and countless emails, she's helped me hone into my inner angst. She's all kind of awesome… I suggest you guys go check her page for some quality fiction. Without her prodding and reassurance, this little fic would have stayed in one of my notebooks forever.

**Title: **When the Children Cry

**Rating: **R, NC-18+, M

**Author: **JRease

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Well, except for this little laptop and a vision.

**Summary: **They all have things worth crying for. They are lonely in their worlds, unknowingly begging for a savior. Rachel, Quinn and Santana are rescued from their reasons by an unsuspecting hero. Dark!Fic. Please read warnings.

**Notes: **I have multiple chapters that have been typed already. I will update weekly as I reread and edit what I've written thus far. Reviews are welcomed and encouraged.

**Timeline**: The story begins in semi-current time. Fic is AU. Finn and Rachel are not together. I don't go by the Brittany canon: she doesn't have the little brother she mentioned in the Madonna episode. Brittany and Artie dated/had sex, but never got back together. Quinn's parent's never divorced. Sam never dates Santana.

**Sunday: Present Day **

She was running. Her heart was beating in her chest, thundering in the confines of her constricted ribcage. Her cross trainers thudded haphazardly against the concrete, and she could feel her adrenaline pumping blood into her ear drums. She knew the streets well, even this late at night; her route purposeful. She ran up the pastel driveway at the next left, brushing the shrubbery as she limped up to the front door; out of breath, scared. She ran through the living room, the dining room; the pantry. She heard yelling coming from the basement, and she followed the sound; the noise tingling her wits like dinner smells to her olfactory senses. She pads down the stairs, into the basement, stopping at the bottom of the staircase to slap her hands against the backs of her damp thighs.

"Brittany calm down I won't come near you just chill."

Rachel looked to Brittany, cowered in the corner, then back to Santana.

"Took you long enough."

Rachel ignored the dark haired Cheerio, turning her attention to the frightened blonde in front of her, noticing the bundles of blankets she had balled up in the crook of her elbow.

"Britt…Britt what's wrong?"

Brittany was rocking a baby doll, she had been crying- the dried tear streaks mocking on her porcelain skin. She noticed Rachel then, and she stood slowly from her crouching position. She put the baby doll down on an old crib next to the deep freezer she had been next to. She grabbed Rachel's face in her long hands, cupping her cheeks and touching their foreheads together.

"I'll never leave you Rach… I promise…I swear."

She was smiling this weird smile, her eyes blank, confusing. Rachel didn't know what to feel… she just shifted on her feet with Brittany, who was leaning down to meet Rachel's stare.

"Do you want to meet my baby, Rach? She's sleeping now…"

Rachel pulled away.

"It's just a baby doll, Britt, come on…let's go upstairs its cold down here."

Brittany brightened.

"No… look. She's tired. Her name is Adrianne. Isn't she gorgeous?"

Brittany pulled back the bundled blankets, and all Rachel could do was cup her mouth. The sounds coming out of Rachel's throat were quieted by the shock of the grotesque scene before her. The sweating corpse of a defrosting newborn lay bare in front of them; it's pale, translucent skin morbid against the dark blankets of the abandoned crib. Blue veins danced over the cloudy skin of a baby without breath, her eyes thankfully closed…her face somewhat neutral.

"Rachel is that a… is it?"

"Santana I think we should call the cops…"

000 0000 000


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes**: The format of the story will remain canon. Most girls will appear on their respective days unless otherwise noted.

Please review. No flames.

_**Sunday: Six months earlier**_

She stares at things. She focuses all of her attention on a solitary thing; and she dissects it. She pulls it apart from the inside out, and reconstructs it. She knows what it's made of, and she knows how to copy it. She could take all of the tiny parts and put them back together; she could recreate. Sometimes she stares so hard she scowls. Because sometimes, it's a challenge to take the tiny complex pieces and reassemble them. Sometimes she stares so hard she can almost see the patterns of perfection. She could create something new inside that something… and make it work right. She stares so hard at everything. But she hates staring at herself. Because no matter how hard she looks…she can't engineer a soul; especially when hers is so shattered.

She's staring at the ceiling. She is blocking out all the noises around her, the friction, and the weight. She's concentrating on the ceiling fan. Inside it would be circuits…wires; bulbs. She's mentally removing the thick glass bowl, unscrewing the four screws around the base. She can follow the cables, it's a simple machine, really—it's too easy.

"_You're so tight_…"

She cringes. He's in her line of sight. She can't help but stare at him. His lips. His chin. His jaw. Teeth, muscles, bone…grit. In his chest, a heart; beating. _Thump, thump thump_— his hips grinding mercilessly hard into the junction of one of her most private places. She needs him to make it hurt. When it feels good all she can do is hate herself. She can't focus with the rocking and the noise, and she's trying her best not to cry, it'll blur her vision. She cries a little anyway.

She needs to pull herself together.

She turns her head, leaning toward his hand gripping the bed sheets. His hairy hands are knotted in fists; knuckles flushed red. She swallows the noises that march up her throat. She can't breathe. She's trying her best to not feel her body's betrayal.

_Traitor_. She thinks.

She's not crying anymore. She's fighting the arch creeping up her spine and the tingling on the bottoms of her feet. She's trying not to buck against him or curl her toes. He's breathing into the base of her neck, his breath tickling the erogenous zone and sending her shaking into an unexpected orgasm. Her body bucks, seizing in the fight to keep control. She shouldn't like this. She hates it actually. But she can feel herself unwinding from what he was doing. She has to choke back the bile to keep composed.

He won't stop. She's shaking, trying her best to ignore the overstimulation, trying her best not to orgasm for him again. It burns…but he makes sure it's burning in the best way.

"_That's my girl… So wet…"_

He whispers in her ear, grabbing her chin before staring her in the eyes. She can't stare back. She doesn't know what inside of him would look like. She doesn't think she'd be able to make him work right. He kisses her. It's not rough. It's soft and erotic. She doesn't kiss back. She keeps her eyes open, letting him assault her lips. He's getting frustrated because she doesn't want to play along tonight. He pulls her leg up by the knee and her whole world changes perspective. He's so deep inside her now that she can only envision them joined; working together in tandem, to make the original design. They were the perfectly malfunctioning machine.

She felt him quiver. She could feel his legs give out, and he shuddered inside of her. She closed her eyes then. She let air out of her constricted lungs. And she focused. She always saw her mother's old radio. It was round like a toaster, big speakers and an antenna. She took it apart thousands of times. There were circuits, switches, receivers and transmitters. There was also an 'ON' knob. An 'ON' knob and beautiful music. The radio always floated around in her mind broken to pieces, and usually in her mind it would come together in perfect condition and sing her lullabies her mother used to mimic.

"_That's my Santana."_

He kisses her.

She flinches.

He leaves.

She closes her eyes. She pulls that radio into her line of sight and she puts it back together. She tries to hear the music. And she tries not to cry.

All she ever hears now is silence.

000 0000 000

**Friday**

She gets home late. She gets home after practice and the library every day except for Fridays. Fridays she can't make up an excuse to be out unless they have a game. Today they don't, so she's home by four promptly. She usually sits for tea with her mother in the study, and she recounts to her mother her entire day. She leaves out the bad parts of course. Anything that won't need parental consent is usually altered. She's aware of her mother's habit of telling her father everything.

Her parents had gotten back together just a month into summer, her father claiming salvation from his adulterous ways. And these days, he demands she be home by four p.m. unless given permission to do otherwise. Her mother won't be sitting for tea today, preoccupied with the part time job she managed to get in her father's absence. Her father let her keep it as a means to get her out of the house; the supplemental income afforded him the pleasure of coming home early twice a week. Her father would be home early today, and it was her job to have his drink mixed and his dinner heated up.

She was mindlessly thinking about all the things she had to do for her classes, not paying attention to the timer buzzing for the oven. It burned, but she hadn't realized it until the smell had permeated through the house, the detectors blaring as she opened the kitchen windows. He'd be home soon, angry at her for screwing up easy directions. She put her own dinner into the over then, sitting in front of it as she listened for the door to slam. She'd go without tonight, it's not like it hadn't happened before.

She just set his drink on the table before she heard the door rattle on the hinges, the contact of it meeting the frame reverberated throughout the silent house. She heard his heavy footfalls tracing steps to where she was, frantically pulling together his hopefully well heated dinner. She froze when he entered the kitchen, stopping dead to stare at her.

He sat down, dropping his briefcase in the empty chair beside him. She was still standing, her fingers playing with the back of the chair she was standing behind. They never ate dinner together; unless it was with company. She always watched him eat, cleaned his mess, and set to her own food alone, while he took his drink in the study. He loosened his tie, picking up the fork tucked into a napkin next to his plate; he picked up the knife with his other hand. He cut into his steak, cubing a hefty sized piece before putting it into his mouth and chewing on it. He spit it out immediately after, shoving back from the table with a screech of his chair against the ceramic tile floor.

He rounded the table faster than she could react, gripping the bottom of her neck with his fingers, pinching the skin. He was a few centimeters away from her face, but she could feel the smug look of downright indignation without having to see him.

"My food is cold, Quinn. Why wasn't my dinner prepared correctly?"

She felt him move around at the area above her waist, and heard as he unbuckled and slid his belt off his hip. She didn't dare look in his direction. She stared forward, and she blinked as slowly as possible, willing the moment to be done with. She felt his hand wander under her top, along her spine. His fingers were dancing quietly over her goose-bumping skin. She was nervous; rigid, waiting. His other hand came under her shirt, the belt cold against her skin. He lifted his hands upward, and she felt him slip the entire thing quietly over her head. She felt the tears prickling her eyes; one falling silently down to her chin.

She was afforded a "thwack" to her lower back. She felt the thick leather welt her skin, the noise shocking her out of the silence of the room. He raised his arm again, coming down with anger; the force of his strength stinging her already sore muscles. She let him hit her six times before breaking; the pain of him hitting one spot continuously threw her off kilter. He stopped on the seventh blow. She let her clenching hands release against the round back of the wood chair, trying not to anticipate the crack the next hit would make against her now aching back. She had to remind herself that this was better than being over his knee. She waited for the next blow; the tension was surmounting. She felt him walk away from her, grabbing his briefcase before heading for the kitchen door.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

"Don't come out of your room until I come get you."

She did as she was told.

She had to.

She always did.

000 0000 000

**Tuesday**

No one was home. No one ever was. Empty hallways and silent cell phones. Echoing quiet bouncing off the uninterrupted carpets. The deafening quiet. The endless, frightening loneliness. Every single day. She had dinner by herself in the dining room, sometimes, she'd set placemats for her stuffed animals…talking to them casually; like families are supposed to.

"How was your day, Mr. Kangaroo? Oh, you got your pouch cleaned, that's splendid."

And she'd cough to clear away her embarrassment. She'd shake off her neediness. She was getting too old for this. At least she stopped pretending her fathers would be in their seats, doting over their special, lovable daughter. She did her homework in her bedroom. Wishing she had someone to show the A+ she got on yet another quiz, or paper. But she didn't. She'd make her way to the basement to file away another snapshot of her life that she'd refer to later; when she was a star and all these pictures and papers would be important to someone who believed in her.

She would practice scales in her bedroom mirror until the neighbors knocked, and she'd plan whatever she could for whatever day it needed to be planned for, because all she ever had was time. Time; and no one to ever fill it with her. She would sit by the telephone until nine, when her parents would call to check on her. Most days they don't call. Today was one of those days.

She'd turn on their bedroom television so that people outside would believe they were having a quiet night in their bedroom, cuddled up and sipping tea to their favorite romantic comedy. She also did it to thwart the practical jokesters and serial pranksters of the neighborhood. She hated being in that house alone, all the time. She hated it especially when they egged her front yard, or attempted to break in for odd reasons in the night. She would sit in her closet huddled with her cell phone on those nights, when she was afraid of them going too far. They hadn't yet. Not that anyone bothered to ever check.

She used to text Finn. But lately he would text back that he's busy, or that he can't talk. So she finally accepted that it was time to move on from him, since he wanted nothing to do with her. She'd expected a summer of wonderful attention and uninhibited connections. But there were none. They dated unsuccessfully all vacation, and he broke it off when he decided that he needed to focus on other things, on girls better and prettier than her.

She'd cry herself to sleep at night, hoping her parents would be home the next day. But they never were. She'd wake alone, always alone.

000 0000 000

**Saturday**

She remembers things. She remembers things from what must be a second life, a not so good life that she's chosen to forget. They come to her in flashes, and she remembers things that she can't recall actually happening. She's usually set off by something. A smell, perhaps, a noise or an action. Something always sets her off, her brain would feel that familiar feeling, and she'd be thrust back into a memory that didn't feel like hers. It always felt like someone showed her a glimpse of a stranger that she was supposed to relate to. This time she smells her mother's burning cigarette.

She's smelled the Malboros plenty of times in the past. Gray smoke leaking out the tip like crude oil. Like the oil on the ducks they found at the pond that time that had sludge on their fluffy feathers. She was in the kitchen making a peanut butter sandwich, and her mother was sitting at the kitchen table with a magazine, her cigarette was in her left hand, dangling off the tips of fingers; ashes threatening to fall into her cup of coffee. And she smelled it. And the memory flashed before her eyes before she could stop it.

A baby. It was a baby that looked like her from the photos on her mother's decorative mantle. She was walking, wobbling out of her tipped over playpen. Her diaper was sagging, stained yellow and browns; particles of old waste up her back, dried and crumbling from her skin. The baby walked into the living room, finding a woman that looked like her mother from a time before. The lady looked like a woman from a younger time; a broken woman from a difficult time. Even more difficult than the letters she battled in her dyslexia; even more difficult than wounded animals and canine euthanasia.

The baby walked up to her younger mother. Her younger mother was rocking another young child in her arms. The baby that looked like her reached out, then, and grabbed quietly at her younger mother and yanked on her skirt tails. And then she smelled it. The cigarette hanging off the bottom lip belonging to her younger mother, the ashes dangerously edging off, she watched them fall. Her younger mother plucked the cigarette, and turned to the baby. She pulled the cigarette off her mouth, and brought it down to the baby's shoulder. She pressed into the flesh of the baby's shoulder, until the flame disappeared in a cloud of smoke. The baby fell backwards onto her soiled diaper, tears pouring down her face, her dry, throat aching to scream but choked out broken, thirsty sobs.

"This is your fault Brittany! Everything is all your fault."

And she watched her younger mother rocking, the blanket over the older child's face falling out of place. Her eyes were yellow. Her skin was somewhat tinged that color too, and she didn't look alive.

And like a flash she saw her mother, back in the kitchen, upbeat and sipping her coffee, humming as she closed the catalogue she'd finished reading. All she could smell was the smoke.

000 0000 000

She went to her room to get away from the smell. She walked over to her mirror and brought her arm up to the burn on her shoulder and shook her head. These memories weren't hers. Her parents weren't like that. They loved her. They _showed_ her they love her. And besides. She was a superhero anyway.

B-Girl. She couldn't really come up with anything more creative. She liked to doodle, and sometimes she'd play with the clay her Daddy always brought home for her. But she wasn't word smart. She couldn't play with words she didn't understand. So she kept it simple. She might not be smart. She knew what people called her, how they felt sorry for her. But she had special powers.

She was B-Girl. She might not know math, and she hates complicated things. But she _**knows**_ who needs to be saved. She always knew. She knew that Dave Karofsky cut himself, that he was like Kurt, and that he needed help. He let her give him hugs. And they aren't like the hugs most guys gave her. He doesn't grope at her or cup her butt or kiss her neck. He hugs her like he needs the hug, like no one ever gave him one before; like someone needs to give him hugs more often. That's the only way he ever allows her to help.

She knew that something was wrong with Quinn Fabray. She sat with her back too straight, and her nerves all tense. Like she was scared to get caught by monsters at random times of the day. Sometimes she would catch Quinn day dreaming, staring out into distant memories; it was hard to get her to comeback sometimes, and that made her scared. She new Quinn needed help. But Quinn liked to pretend that everything was always okay… and that she was always in control. Someone else pulled Quinn Fabray's strings, and she knew that she had to cut them before it was too late.

She knew that Rachel Berry was breaking on the inside. Even though she had a pretty shell. She wanted someone to notice it, but everyone thought they were better than her, and that she didn't need the attention because she vocalized wanting it too much. But she noticed. She watched her crumble on the inside from loneliness. She needed to glue her back together soon too.

And then there was her San. Her best friend wasn't there much anymore. But she knew that she had to save San before something bad happened. San was shutting down, reacting once in a while with an outburst, and pushing all the feelings away again. San was losing her sanity really. Her SANity. The stuff that made her who she was. Her life juice. It was leaking through that hole she had… she was losing herself in something. She wanted to help her the most. She wanted to make things better like when they were younger. She needed her tough San to come back. This San gave in too easy.

She needed to rescue them. All three of them. She was a superhero and she needed to do her job. She needed to rescue them before they gave up. And she was going to save them soon.

000 0000 000


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings: **Still apply people. The next few chapters deal with the same kind of graphic content. There will be more of that for background and hopefully we can get to all the… other stuff. This plot is all types of complex… and I hope I do it justice.

Please review.

**Sunday**

She was sitting in her room, gluing together one of the model airplanes her Abuelo had sent her. She was wearing her glasses, the square framed black glasses she needed to see the groves of the tiny pieces. This was the third plane she put together in the last week. She needed something to do to keep her mind off things. But her thoughts were traitors. She put down her glue, and sat back against her chair.

Her mother was dead.

It had been one week. It had been one entire week of trying to grasp the concept of her Mama being gone. She wasn't coming back. Her heart had stopped beating and she never woke up. Her Mama was no more. No amount of puzzles or model airplanes or coloring books would let her forget it. She'd stopped crying on the third day. The ache in her throat and the rawness of her eyes wouldn't bring her mother back. No amount of glue could fix her heart.

"Santana!"

Her Daddy was going crazy. He took leave from work, and he cried most of the day. He sat in his office with a drink, he wouldn't eat, and she couldn't remember him sleeping either.

"Yes Daddy?"

"Why isn't the house clean?"

"I cleaned it yesterday."

He smacked her.

"I'll do it now."

She knew not to talk back to him. She knew not to give him lip. He hit her a few times during that week, but only when he got frustrated with her. She moved to leave her bedroom, but his arm shot out to grab her.

"Santanita… "

She stopped. He kneeled in front her, tucking her frizzy, long wavy hair behind her ear. He ran his hand down the side of her face, grazing over the raised skin of her reddening cheek. He kissed the side of her mouth. He pecked lightly over the darkening bruise.

She could smell the scotch.

"You look so much like your mother… baby. So much…"

He kissed her again, this time running his tongue over her bottom lip. She pulled away.

"No, Daddy…"

She was pushing her hands against his chest. He brought his hand up from her lower back to fist in her hair.

"You don't say no to me, Santanita! You never say no to me!"

He tugged.

She stood still, and when he ran his tongue over her bottom lip again, she didn't pull away.

"You're thirteen Santanita… you're almost a woman. You'll be as beautiful a woman as she was…"

He kissed her again, pushing his tongue into her mouth and running it over hers. She wanted to recoil. To get him to stop, but she was scared he would hit her again.

"Kiss me back, Anita…"

He never called her that… that was her mother's name. She was scared. She had been nervous…but now, she was terrified.

"Please, don't. I-I'll go clean the house…"

He kissed her again, this time—harder. She puckered her lips against his, and countered his movements when he slipped his tongue into her mouth. He was groaning into her throat. The hand fisted in her hair loosened, and he began to massage her throbbing scalp. He pulled back, leaning on his knees to pull her shirt off. He cupped her face, and kissed her again. She was crying now. Not sure what was about to happen. He wouldn't. He wasn't. He took his shirt off and latched back to her lips. She was standing still, her arms crossed over her shivering, nude upper body. His hands reached up to pull her hands away from herself. He cups the almost flat skin of her breast. He rubbed his hands in circles over her, kissing his way down her neck. She sharply inhales a breath when his mouth closes over her nipple. She takes a step back.

"Don't say no to me, Anita."

His nails are digging into her waist, and she's still crying as he picks her up and sets her down on her bed. He's trailing his hands along her body, and he's kissing her intimately. She knows it's wrong; but she's afraid of what he'll do if she fights it. All she can smell is the alcohol seeping from his skin, and the faint musk of his cologne and dirt from not washing for a week. She's choking on her own tears by the time he slips his hand into her pants. He's rubbing something down there that's making her hips buck. She can't stop it, and he won't stop.

"Daddy _please_…"

"Don't call me that, Anita."

"Please stop. I won't—"

He smacks her again. This time it's the other cheek.

And it happens fast. He's tugging her shorts and her panties down her legs, and she could swear it burned her skin. He opens her legs and runs his fingers along her privates. She's crying loudly now, and he's getting rougher as he touches her. He gets frustrated at something before he settles at her hips and kisses her vagina. She stops moving then. She doesn't want this. She needs for him to stop.

He ravishes her.

He's licking and nipping and sucking at things; and she's afraid of this impending feeling. She thinks something big is about to happen. And she can't stop it from pushing closer and closer to erupt and flow over. She's crying and whimpering at the same time, and she's afraid of feelings tightening in her belly.

He interrupts the feeling with a slender finger. It presses into her abruptly, sliding in easily but damaging something inside her. The pain registers late. He pulls it out and slides it back in. She's tense, and she hates the feeling of something being inside of her. It felt so foreign. He was kissing her again, his tongue tasting like something not quite edible. She feels his hand on her hip, the other between them. He's undoing his pants, letting them bunch open as he slid himself against her. It was hard and velvety at the same time. Smooth skin, hard and thick, and it was pressing up against her. She started struggling.

"No, please, don't make me… I'm sorry Daddy, I won't do it again just _please_!"

And in a flash of pinch and burn, he pushed inside her. She was splintering. If his finger had hurt, this was killing her. She gave up moving, he'd won, there was nothing left to fight for. He was pulling out of her and grunting back in. She was crying, he was whispering her mother's name into her hair. He was pumping into her so hard, that her table next to her bed began to shake, she watched as her mother's radio shifted from its position, sliding off the edge before the scream could leave her lips. She watched it make contact with the ground, shattering into hundreds of little pieces. The pain didn't register much after that. She felt the warm fill her, spreading around inside her like poison. Her father slouched over her, panting and kissing her jaw.

"_That's my girl… so wet." _

And then; she woke up.

She was tangled in her wet sheets, the smell assaulting her senses before feeling did. She got out of bed, pulling down her sheets and bunching up the offense. She sat on the floor, not bothering to try going back to sleep. She pulled the box from beneath her bed, and looked at the pieces inside. The bottom of the radio had been correctly reassembled. The top had shattered, so many tiny pieces she had to get back together before trying to take her time. She rocked on the spot, trying to gather the mental image together. She couldn't keep doing this. She was tired, and the visits were getting frequent.

She heard the noise from down the hall, the silent thud against the wall a big indicator that her father would probably come for her later; his new wife not enough to satisfy him. She shot up, walking nude into her bathroom. Leaving her clothes on these days just meant that he'd take longer. She grabbed the bucket from underneath the sink and went to the task of scrubbing her bed. She was getting too old for this…

She showered afterward and got ready for school. She was hours early, but all she could do was pace her room until sunrise. She let her bed dry before flipping the mattress and putting on new bedcovers. She waited for her alarm to go off before heading downstairs to drink her mandatory Sue protein shake. She made it without thought, blending it before Elaine walked in, ruffling her after sex morning hair, to set the coffee pot.

"Mornin' Tana."

She just rolled her eyes.

"_Elanor_."

"Elaine…Tana, don't be rude."

"Well the name is _Santana_…get it right I might get yours right."

"I've been around long enough that I should be getting some respect from you, Santana."

"Whatever."

"Look, you need to get used to the fact that I will be sticking around for a long time."

"Okay, _Ellen_—don't get all high and mighty because you lasted a year. Just know that you're wife number three. He'll get bored with you too."

"Santana that is enough!"

Her mouth snapped shut. She crossed her arms as he rounded the kitchen center island. He was still strong, his long arms gripping the edge of the counter, his forearms flexing as he glared at her. His graying hair was unkempt and he was still in his boxers.

"Whatever, I'm outtie anyways."

"Bye _Elsie_…"

"Santana!"

She left the house smirking.

000 0000 000

**Friday**

She felt her heart raging in her chest. She couldn't control the breaths threatening to break her diaphragm and she couldn't shake the quiver in her exhale. Her face was damp, tear streaks marring her cheeks. She felt the burn on her bottom, and the feeling of the welts on her skin made her blood pump harder through her veins.

Her panties were embarrassingly wet.

Had she not been crying, the red splotches on her face would be the flush creeping up her neck and cheeks. She shouldn't feel like this. Not after a spanking. He'd pulled her over his lap and tugged her dress up. He ripped her panties down her legs and he swatted her bare bottom with the palm of his calloused hand. He hit lower as the welts from his assault started to scar her skin. Every low hit that made contact with her bottom jerked her body forward against his legs. His arm stretched across her hip and forced the friction against the places…down there. His hand seemed to never tire. And when his hand did tire it sent her mewling behind clenched teeth, trying not to give him another reason to punish her. She grit her teeth with each whack against her flesh. When he finished he gathered her up by her waist and told her to "fix" herself. She pulled up her panties and sat on the couch, the pulse a constant reminder of her excitement as she listened to the lecture her father delivered.

She sat in that spot for fifteen minutes, her body still whirling from the beating, the ebbing pain pumping adrenaline through her body like cool fire. He sent her to her room with the instruction not to come out until he called for her. She supposed it would take a couple hours. She stood, pulling her underwear off and examining the damage. She was leaking.

She was _still_ aroused.

She sat down on her dress in her computer chair, pushing her hand under it until she made contact with the damp, fine hair. She dragged a finger along her slit, rolling her head on her neck as she made contact with the extremely hard nub. She pulled it away immediately.

She doesn't do this. She didn't touch herself. It was disgusting. It was wrong and it was unladylike. But the aching between her legs was rivaling the ache from her bottom; she needed release. She walked over to her bed, flattening her body out on her stomach, one hand bended underneath her. She dragged her dress up her burning upper thighs until it bunched around her waist. She brought her left hand behind her and smoothed it over the angry raised skin. The sharp intake of breath she took was louder than the noises of the house. She pushed a single digit into her folds with the hand trapped beneath her, grazing her clit and biting her lip she swirled her fingertip around the bud. She continued the motion steadily, the blinding intensity rising as she ascended her climax.

She pushed her finger inside herself.

She started rocking on her palm, her fingertip curling inside her—her palm forcing friction between her moving body and her grinding hand. She was so close; she squeezed her bottom, and could feel the stirrings of the spasms that raked inside her. She was panting and sweating and she was gripping her finger with such a wet tightness that she was heady with the feeling. She squeezed her bottom again and winced, her pace slowing down to a shameful limp, her finger falling out of herself.

She began to cry.

Her orgasm abandoned, she curled onto her side and held herself, her sobs shaking her body. She rocked quietly on her side, trying to will away the feeling thumping between her thighs. Like an ever present reminder of her sadistic infatuation with pain; a pulsating thump of accusation.

She was a pervert. She knew it.

All she could think of was the first time her father pulled her over his knee. The hits were hard and merciless. The sting was unexpected; but exhilarating. She had a hard time keeping from screaming, and she was sure her father would feel the wet between her clenching thighs. He seemed clueless about what was happening to her. He hit her until she climaxed, and he continued to hit her through the orgasm. The whimpers that fell from her lips were misinterpreted, and her father didn't think anything of the noises she made while she was punished. He sent her to her room after, and she cried herself to sleep after coming to terms with her first orgasm; her sick sinful arousal.

It made her cry harder.

She fell asleep that way, waking up when he mother came to sit on the bed. She was stroking her sweaty hair, and pulling strands of it from her face.

"Honey, your Daddy told me what happened… you've got to be more careful, Quinnie."

"It wasn't my fault, I can't help who calls for me, mother, I'm a popular girl."

"That's just it, Quinnie, he doesn't want what happened last year to happen again. He's only protecting you sweetheart."

"Protecting me, mother? He's _beating_ me. How am I supposed to get around school with welts on my thighs? He can't keep doing this mom…"

Her mother patted her head again.

"He doesn't mean it, Quinn…just- just try to behave"

Her mother kissed her forehead before leaving her room.

She felt like this house was a cage…she needed a way out.

000 0000 000

**Tuesday**

Today was the day. She was starring in the annual ballet production of Swan Lake. She'd gotten a lead part and she was excited to see her fathers. They promised they would make it, and she even got them reserved seats up front.

The seats remained empty for the entire night.

She had to get a ride home from the ballet director; she dropped her off at her house with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. She waited for her to get to her door, and waved goodbye after Rachel turned on the porch lights from inside the house. The house was empty and dark, photos of her happy childhood memories mocking her in her current state of insignificance. She walked past oil paintings of her and her fathers, still photos and head shots covering the decorated walls.

They used to love her.

She didn't know when it stopped, when they decided that parenting was too big a burden for them to handle. Most people didn't notice that they were gone all the time. There were no obvious signs of distress coming from the large house, and Rachel was old enough to take care of herself most of the time. She didn't want anyone to know that everyone who was supposed to love her abandoned her.

The people who knew her wouldn't even give her pity.

She wished they would notice her loneliness. The aching quiet of her parent's ignorance. The despair of her biological mother's abandonment. The outright rejection from Finn. The treacherous betrayal of Jesse. People used her, they never appreciated her; they always left her. So alone. She just wanted attention, affirmation that she was worth something to someone…to anyone. She checked the answering machine when she saw the flashing red light blinking from across the living room.

"Hey Rach—your Daddy booked the wrong time for the flight back. We won't be home until the weekend, we wired some money to your account. Sorry about the recital. We'll make the next one, sweetie. Love you later!"

The message ended. She could hear the noise of a party in the background. He probably hadn't tried to book flights at all. The phone call was even an afterthought. She marched up to her bedroom, and sat down in front of her computer, turning it on. She checked the insulting comments on her MySpace. They were so frequent that they didn't sting anymore. She was about to log off before a new name caught her eye.

_Beautiful voice…I'm sure you'll be going somewhere BIG._

She clicked on the profile. A beaming man smiled heartily in the picture, his arm thrown lazily over another man's shoulder. She clicked on his profile picture, noting the caption of him and his brother. She navigated through the profile, quickly reading the information in the appropriate boxes. She found the little email icon under his picture, and stared anxiously at the text box that popped up on her screen seconds later.

The cursor blinked.

She never had an admirer. Lima was a little place, she had three actual friends on the social profile site, most of her friends list consisted of musicians she followed. She was usually blocked for her lengthy and condescending reviews of their mediocre talent. She didn't translate well in many venues… but this person. This man, _Rick_, seemed so interested. She didn't want to scare him away.

_Hi. Saw you left a comment on my profile…would you like to hear more?_

She hit send…and waited.

000 0000 000

**Saturday**

Her parents were arguing. She was sitting on her bedroom floor playing with the dolls her Daddy brought home for her last month. Ken's face had a big hole in it from where her mother burned him.

_You're too old to play with these silly toys, Brittany. You're fourteen…grow up._

She still didn't throw it away, they were the only toys she had to play with, and she had to make the most of them. She listened to her parents throwing things at each other, her mother throwing plates at her father; her father ducking and it smashing against the wall. She hates when her mother goes off. She's different. She's _**evil**_. These were the types of fights that usually only lead to one thing. And she hated having to save her father. She hated saving her father from her mother. There were fifteen notches on her bedpost. And after tonight's fight…she would add another one.

He would come into her room and settle on her bed. He always shook her awake… rubbed her shoulders and kissed her under her arms. He always cried, he cried like he was being rescued, like he was thankful. Like for those few minutes he's with her, he gets to be somewhere else. She gives him his salvation. Sometimes it hurts… sometimes she's ready. He always shakes above her and lets his forehead rest on hers, and he kisses her goodnight.

He always tells her he loves her afterwards.

For every notch she gets a new doll.

She got a new doll this time, mismatched, a Bratz doll with a bigger face for her mother to burn holes into. She was sixteen now; but her Daddy still bought her dolls to play with, and she had to make her Daddy happy. She was the only one who did make him feel that way anymore. She put the dolls in her dollhouse, and listened to her mother scream at her father over something she didn't understand.

She decided to etch the notch into her bedpost early.

She turned off her light and lay on her bed. She thought about her mother. Her mother was the woman with her gardening magazines, empty eyes and constantly lit cigarette. The woman on the other side of the door was evil; that woman was Diane. Diane spat when she talked and always screamed at her whenever she called out for her mommy.

_I am not your mother!_

Diane was her arch enemy. She was the biggest villain in B-Girl's world. Diane went away for a long time…a long time ago, and all she knows is that the doctors made her come back…normal. But sometimes Diane came back and well… she hasn't defeated that villain yet. She's working on it. For now she lets her live in her mother's body.

It was getting late. She closes her eyes for what feels like minutes… only to feel that familiar shake.

She's going to save the world one day.


End file.
